by Nat Burns
Sophie nodded and continued. “What brought her to us was a fall that tore open one of the grafts.” She paused. “The strange thing was that the fire went up inside. I’ve never seen anything like it. I think someone did it to her on purpose.”
Beulah lifted her head and studied Sophie with keen eyes. How had she not sensed that? She used her fork and absently pushed scrambled eggs around on her plate as she pondered this new idea.
“Who would do something like that?” asked Clary, lifting her mug and taking a sip of coffee, eyes thoughtful. “That just don’t seem right.”
“You know anything about her people, Clary? They’re the Clarks from on Cox’s Creek. She’s a...what’s her name?” Beulah snapped her fingers, trying to awaken her memory.
“November. She’s Delora November,” Sophie supplied wistfully, her gaze studying the early morning haze above Bayou Lisse.
Clary sat straight and her mouth fell open. “I know about this,” she said excitedly. “It was about two years ago. Her husband Larry, no, wait, Louie. Louie November. Drunk on his ass one day he set their house on fire. He was burned too but still lives here in the area. I thought the wife left him, moved away, though, to Georgia or something.”
“She’s back, I guess,” said Beulah, gnawing halfheartedly at a piece of toast. “Maybe they got back together. I wouldn’t give the son-of-a-bitch beng the time of day, though, ’twas me.” She threw the toast onto her plate and pushed the plate away.
Sophie smiled, knowing that Grandam always fell into the old language if her emotion ran high. Delora’s plight must have affected her deeply.
“Jin, puridaia, Devel dan bengs, doldi,” Sophie said softly.
Clary snorted. “Hmph, if God punishes devils, why are there so many fat, rich ones walking around?” She rose, carried Beulah’s dishes to the sink and began washing them busily.
The creak of an oarlock outside drew Sophie’s attention, and she moved to the front door. “Kith is meeting,” she told the others.
Clary and Beulah moved to peer through the screen with Sophie.
“I wonder what the topic is,” murmured Clary.
“I haven’t heard anything,” answered Beulah. “Usually Irma Geneva tells me.”
Sophie had to admit the boat passing by would easily strike an ominous alarm in the hearts of all who viewed its passage. At meeting time, the boat, owned by Kith member, Tomlin Sirois, would stop at every one of the nine homes along the bayou collecting the members. Usually they met to discuss the maintenance of the laws and people, but extra meetings could be called when decisions, usually related to crime, had to be rendered.
The boat was long, twenty-five feet, and carried a somber collection of Manu Lisse. Most were older men, well-respected in the Roma community of Bayou Lisse, each representing a specific tribe. They were dressed in traditional garb, wearing long dark robes over their daily wear and high leather boots, each decorated according to their tribe. Black, low-brimmed fedoras covered their ebony-haired heads, each with a short feather set off at a jaunty angle. They were talking softly among themselves. Jaul Fauster, representative for the Chovihanni tribe that the Cofe families belonged to, waved at them from his perch standing along an upright. He extended one leg and hung off the side of the boat as he waved. The other Kith turned and eyed them, most lifting a hand in salute. Beulah or Sophie had treated every one of the nine at some point, so their home was well-favored by the governing board.
Within moments, they were out of sight and the women returned to the kitchen table. Sophie studied Grandam’s olive skin and wondered again at her own coloring. She’d wondered many times before, at each family gathering, why that, although she had the dusky skin of her people, her hair was as fair as a morning sunrise. Where was the dark hair and brows of the others? She and her mother Faye were the only two in the tribe who bore heavy blond curls and hair that grew absurdly fast, like a field afire. Grandam attributed it to her great-great-grandmother, Maddy Cofe, who was the first to be born with silver hair. According to family lore her gift had been the most extreme, for she communicated entirely without words and could heal from a distance if brought a comb bearing the ill one’s hair.
Although the blond coloring set Sophie off from her people, there was also the additional respect accorded her due to her own healing prowess. Thus, she’d never regarded the difference as a painful one and moved easily among those she helped.
Sophie’s thoughts turned to Delora, who was also blond but with pale, freckled skin and huge, blue eyes. She listened with half an ear to Clary and Grandam’s conversation, but her being focused on Delora and certain unmentionable fantasies.
Chapter Twenty
The ache of her broken finger lingered, throbbing like a toothache. By six Delora had had enough. Bidding Esther a pained goodbye, she gave the bar a last swipe, with keen eyes scanned the club making sure everything was in order, then slipped out the back door. At home, she eased into the front hall, quiet as was her habit. The TV droned quietly in the darkened living room, the flickering light strobing against the walls.
The sound hit her first—sly chuckles and strange, short moans. Slowing her tentative stride even further, Delora peeked around the corner and recoiled. Louie was resting in his usual chair in the darkened living room, head thrown back and mouth open. Light from the television flickered across his scarred face, making his visage horror movie quality. The sight frightened Delora, but she wasn’t quite sure how she felt about Rosalie’s head bobbing up and down in his groin area. Delora’s eyes grew wide as she watched Rosalie move high and shift her bulk above Louie, lowering herself onto him. She rocked herself up and down as her loose housedress billowed around them.
Revulsion stirred in Delora and she backed against the wall of the dim hallway, heart pounding and mind racing. How long had this been going on? She peered around the doorframe again and watched long enough to see Rosalie lean forward and press her sloppy mouth onto Louie’s scarred, minimal lips.
Hell, she thought with surprisingly little anger, they could have been carrying on since she and Louie moved here. Perhaps this was the real reason Louie had not approached her for sex since the accident—a great fear she had lived with for the past two years. She should have realized he wasn’t leaving her alone out of some charitable inclination. Damn his ass.
Edging toward the door to outside, she passed through carefully. She didn’t want them to know she’d seen. Odd. She should have been filled with anger and hurt but felt only resignation. So be it. There was no need to rock the boat.
Standing in the front yard, hand pounding, Delora realized that for the first time in her life she felt homeless. Even when her parents had died in that horrible hurricane that had passed through like the wrathful hand of God she had not felt that way. There had been a childlike knowledge—no, a certainty—that the state welfare people would find her a home. And it wasn’t until later when she had a foster home that she realized how much her parents’ death had changed her life. Yet she had had a home.
Now all was different. She felt abandoned. There was no place to go.
As if denying the realization, her feet started scissoring, taking her to the car and the road south. She entered Redstar and sat outside the darkened diner chewing aspirin she’d picked up at Albie’s Drugstore. She watched the black boys talk up passersby for a few coins and knew she did not want to stay there. Frustrated, she gunned the engine. Feeling a twinge of pain in her abdomen, she suddenly knew where to go.
Chapter Twenty-One
Delora stood before the small wooden house. The last gasp of spring flowers stood guard on either side of the door, their feet hidden in window boxes. Delora felt a stirring within her, a funny anticipation. Or fear. Soft light spilling from the large front window made her believe Sophie was home, even though the stillness of the night made this faith waver. A low drone of grasshopper song reached a crescendo as she moved toward the porch. The sound of her footstep onto the bottom step ratcheted o
ff into the night like a harsh moan, and she paused, a deer in car headlights. There were no sounds from inside, so she stepped carefully onto the weathered floorboards of the porch.
The door opened just as her weight shifted from step to porch and gentle candlelight leapt upon her. Sophie waited for her, framed in the doorway, a calm silhouette. Their eyes met and Delora passed from the disturbing night into the quiet sanctuary of Sophie’s home. Inside, Sophie motioned Delora into one of the easy chairs and disappeared into the back. Delora looked at the chair and realized it was the most inviting thing in the world. Gratefully, with just a hint of wonder about why she was here, she settled herself into the chair, angling her head back. A vision of Louie’s scarred face in that same position disturbed her so she jerked upright.
She reluctantly replayed the scene in her mind. They’d been at it a long time; they were too comfortable with one another. Delora knew she should be angry, knew she should be seething about the burning as well, but there seemed to be nothing left in her to care. She was an empty husk, the sweetness inside having all been burnt away as easily as the outer flesh.
As if she’d had it ready and waiting for her, Sophie appeared with a cup of hot, brewed tea.
“It’s black tea with a little chamomile for calmness,” she said as she handed it to Delora.
“Mrs. Cofe?”
“She’s in bed. Usually goes early these days.”
They sat in silence for a long time and, strangely, Delora felt comfortable. Sophie wore like a comfortable pair of jeans, yet Delora felt exhilarated to be with her. There was an odd electric hum, and, if she thought about it too long, she realized there was some eroticism to it. Since the time their eyes had met and Delora had trusted Sophie’s hand there in her most intimate, wounded place, there had been this unspoken energy between them.
They sat in silence for some time, sipping tea. Delora closed her eyes and pressed her cheek to the warm exterior of the porcelain mug.
“Do you want to talk about it?”
Delora opened her eyes. Sophie was watching her, eyes sympathetic and ridiculously warm in the lamplight. She shook her head, letting Sophie know it was not something she wanted to deal with tonight. Instead, she began talking about her childhood, about the death of her parents, the aftermath of that storm.
The description of Delora’s loss was so vivid that Sophie could taste the copper of Delora’s desolation, could smell the resignation Delora wore on her skin.
“Hold me,” Delora said suddenly and so quietly that Sophie was afraid she hadn’t heard correctly.
Sophie placed her cup carefully on the end table and sat back. “Come sit on my lap,” she invited, her eyes unreadable.
Delora rose with slow uncertainty, and Sophie wondered why this movement should seem so natural, so inevitable. Delora fell into Sophie’s arms, a feather wafting through the Guf, the hall of souls. Sophie’s arms found a home in Delora’s slim curves, and they remained silent, breaths catching as they tried to stifle an inner excitement the contact wrought. Grasshoppers sang mournful ballads outside the walls while the bayou water beat a bass note against the shore.
Delora drifted off, and Sophie studied her beautiful sleeping face for some time. Her fingers lay softly curled against Delora’s cheek, and she tenderly pressed her lips to the warmth of the sleeping woman’s forehead. It was then she noticed the subtle darkening of the left little finger. Carefully she worked it loose into the light. Delora muttered in pain but did not awaken. The finger was broken and needed tending. Loathe to awaken Delora, however, Sophie decided it could wait. A different comfort seemed more necessary at the moment. Resting her head against Delora’s crown, she closed her eyes, basking in the essence of the woman she knew she would love.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Her hands reached to caress an imaginary form. She could see Delora’s head indenting the pillow next to her. Sophie rolled onto her left side, right hand stretching toward where she knew Delora belonged.
“Are you there?” she asked, not entirely sure she meant Delora or the creatures from the other side. Perhaps the Others would see the extent of Sophie’s desire. No, her need. How could this gnawing be mere desire? Though powerful, desire could not match this aching for Delora in her life.
This was a new experience, this need. Bayou born, she’d learned early that whatever she did set universal forces in motion and these forces were usually unpredictable. Only ritual and daily direction could sway these forces and sometimes even these were useless.
“It must be time,” she entreated to the powerful minions of the Universe. “Since you brought her to me and gave me this craving.”
She wasn’t sure whether to thank them or curse them.
Her fingers brushed across the soft cotton fabric caught taut across the mattress. So smooth, like the inside of Delora. She had relived that brief moment of possession time and again. The sensation of slipping her hand inside would wash across her unexpectedly, snatching her breath and causing her to drop everything just to remember it in detail.
If she tried hard, she could capture a little of Delora’s scent. Her smell was an intriguing blend of lemon, fried food and cigarettes. Delora had stayed until about four in the morning. About midnight Sophie had led the sleeping woman to the bedroom, all the while muttering calming words. Then Sophie had cuddled her close as they lay together and all protestation vanished. Sleep had returned to the smaller woman, but Sophie had lain awake a long time, part of her thrilling to the physical closeness, allowed at last to hold Delora. Another part of her chewed worry until it was bitter gall.
Then, just before daybreak, Sophie had awakened to Delora’s panic. With whispered apologies for the intrusion, Delora tried to hurry away so she wouldn’t be missed at home. Sophie had practically barred the bedroom door.
“You can’t go yet,” Sophie whispered firmly.
Cradling her wounded hand, which must have hurt like a son-of-a-bitch, Delora stared wordlessly at Sophie with wide eyes.
“I know why you need to go and you can go,” she whispered. “Just let me take care of that, okay? I don’t want you hurting, Delora. Fifteen minutes, I promise.”
Delora lowered her head and nodded assent. They walked together through the dim house, and Sophie gave new fire to one lone candle. She gathered supplies while Delora waited next to the wooden worktable.
“How’d you do this?” Sophie asked quietly.
Delora remained silent but watched Sophie with avid eyes, only hissing once when Sophie straightened the break and bound it to the splint. Sophie’s eyes found Delora’s, and their gazes locked. Sophie saw so much there and she ached to kiss the other woman. Delora’s expression silently welcomed her. Yet after a long moment, Delora looked away, nervously, toward the door.
Sighing, Sophie finished and pressed a bottle of pain pills into Delora’s other hand. “One every four hours and lots of water, okay?”
Delora nodded but returned the bottle to the worktable and turned away. She opened the door with care and stepped through.
“Delora?”
She turned back and studied Sophie’s face.
“Watch out for deer. They’re everywhere this time of the morning. Be careful.”
Delora smiled and Sophie’s heart took wing.
Now, arising for the second time, sweeping her legs over the side of the bed, Sophie stood and moved to the bathroom, wondering how her newest patient was doing. Her workload was light, but she did need to go into town and check on Alvin. Maybe, just maybe, she’d have a little time to stop in and see Delora too.
Chapter Twenty-Three
A group of mourning doves had taken up residence in the shrubbery in front of Spinner’s Fen. Their cooing conversation usually welcomed Delora—at least until her crunching footsteps announced her closeness and silenced them. Today they were strangely quiet, the only evidence of their presence the sporadic flutter of wings.
Long a believer in omens, Delora paused on the gravel w
alkway. What did this silence mean? Such quiet, after more than a year of noisy greetings, had to be significant. She was not a seer, however, and had no easy answers. She slowed her pace and studied what she could see of their gray and white bodies through the heavy leaves.
There was no indication by the sound of what the message entailed. Sighing, Delora moved past. There was work to do. Annie had called earlier to say she’d be late. This didn’t worry Delora. She had opened the greenhouse many times on her own.
Moving to the heavy front doors, she laboriously propped them open, then took her time arranging the sale items to their best advantage on the shelves flanking either side of the doorway. There was no rush, really. She wouldn’t water the bigger plants in the back until Annie arrived.
When all were arranged to her satisfaction, she walked around the fragrant greenhouse, randomly choosing good-looking midsize potted plants to place out in front of the building.
Delora liked being alone at Spinner’s Fen. It was as if her hearing grew more acute. Without Annie there, even quiet, slow-moving Annie, the air was more rarefied, not cluttered by bodies displacing the sound.
Listening to the whisper of dry grass rubbing against the greenhouse wall, Delora continued on, her movements silent and precise. Watching out for her bandaged finger, she set out flats of adolescent tomatoes, their spicy leaf-kisses welcome on her skin. Neatening the rows of gardening books, she found a misplaced praying mantis. Crooning to her, Delora studied the beautiful young creature, marveling at the fine work of nature. She felt blessed to have been able to see—and have time to study—such a well-structured insect.
“Go on with you,” she said finally as she walked outside and placed the mantis in a blooming Rose of Sharon bush. She was fiddling with the watering apparatus, preparatory to watering the inside plants, when she heard a car engine approach.
